- Veric Ashton Point of View -

  Veric slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

  His wrist throbbed where the damned barbarian had grabbed him. The skin was still red, darker at the center where the fingers had dug in. It looked almost burned, which was ridiculous. The bastard hadn’t used fire. Just grip.

  He paced the length of his room, boots thudding on polished wood.

  His suite looked a bit too nice for this city, as it had silk curtains and imported carpets, furniture that didn’t reek of old smoke. He’d paid extra just to remind himself he was better than the crowd below. Usually, it served its purpose.

  Now it just felt like a cage.

  That barbarian humiliated me. The thought circled, refusing to leave. He did it in front of everyone. In front of slaves! And that wench Ilyra.

  Illyra Marcellis, daughter of Severus Marcellis. Among the nobles of the eastern side of the empire, she was a glittering gem. The girl had had countless pursuers over the years, and even the Imperial 2nd Prince had asked for her hand, but she’d rejected them all.

  If not for the recent misfortune of her family, someone like Lothar couldn’t even dream of getting her hand in marriage.

  Naturally, Veric also had eyes for Ilyra; he always did. Since she was the type of woman he could never have. She was a Count’s heir, a real noble born, whereas he was the son of a gang leader turned Baron. She was someone he could only look at from afar before, but now as a noble, he was a little closer to her. Now that her family was declining, he could look her in the eye.

  Unfortunately, before he could claim her as his own, House Velkor had chained her down. Veric had complained to the gods about it, grumbling why Illyra had to have gotten engaged to Lothar. Veric’s influence couldn’t touch that ‘friend’ of his, after all.

  What could Veric do anyway?

  So whenever he saw her, he made a point of humiliating her. Reminding her that her house was falling, that she who’d rejected a Prince in the past was now engaged to someone like Lothar Velkor. Veric always enjoyed how she hid her annoyance.

  This time, it blew up in his face.

  That scary red aura had filled the room, pressing down until he could barely breathe. And that red-haired savage bitch just sat there, staring at him like he was nothing.

  How dare she look at him like that? As if he, Veric Ashton, son of Baron Ashton, was beneath her, a barbarian.

  He stopped at the window and forced himself to take a breath.

  Calm down. Think.

  He needed to report this. Instead of shaking in fear without having anything to take it out on, he had to do something about it. He could start by giving that wench Ilyra a difficult time. Lothar had to know Ilyra was here, training, and bringing barbarians with collars she hadn’t bothered to make visible.

  “Alright then, Ilyra, let’s see how you’ll react to this.”

  Veric laughed to himself and walked to his travel chest and unlocked it. Inside, beneath folded clothes and a false bottom, sat a small obsidian disc.

  Most nobles would write a letter. They’d seal it, send it by courier, and wait three days for a reply. It was slow and pathetic. Veric Ashton wasn’t most noble.

  He lifted the obsidian disc with care, staring at it. The surface was smooth, cold, marked with patterns too precise for any craftsman he knew. A gift from his benefactors… the same ones who’d handed him Amara, and pointed him toward other useful prizes.

  They called it an Etherplate.

  He’d never asked how it worked. He didn’t care. What mattered was that it let him speak across the Empire instantly, and it didn’t leave the paper trail that made careless nobles hang.

  He set the disc on the table and placed both palms flat against its surface.

  A pulse of cold ran through his fingers. The obsidian warmed under his touch as it took his Mana, then glowed faintly. Runes along the edge lit in sequence, and the surface rippled like disturbed water.

  He couldn’t help but smile. Let the old fools write their letters. Just with a device like this, once I become the Baron this city will advance like never before.

  The plate flickered. Then it cleared.

  Lothar Velkor appeared in the glass.

  He lounged in what had to be his private chambers, chest bare, blonde hair loose over his shoulders. A robe hung open at his waist. His face was flushed, breathing slow in that way that made it obvious what he’d been doing.

  Just below the frame, Veric caught a flicker of black hair moving.

  A woman’s head was between Lothar’s legs.

  Veric’s expression was blank for a moment. He cleared his throat, louder than he needed to. Lothar glanced at the plate with half-lidded eyes and grinned. “Veric, my brother. Perfect timing.”

  Perfect time, he says? Veric held back an insult. “You sure look like you’re enjoying yourself,” he said, and the words came out sharper than he’d planned.

  Lothar laughed. It was the easy, untroubled sound of a man who’d never known shame. “What can I say? You know that Velkor hospitality is legendary. You should visit more often.” He leaned back slightly, fingers sliding into the black hair below the frame. “What’s so urgent that you’re calling me at this hour?”

  Veric swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “Your fiancée. She just pissed me off.”

  Lothar’s smile widened. “Did she now? She’s in Harrowgate?”

  “Yes, she came to Harrowgate with two barbarians,” Veric began. “Valtherians, one’s a girl and the other’s a man. That bastard grabbed my wrist when I tried to… inspect the situation. Nearly broke it. Then he tore a roof open with his Aura and scared half the tavern into running.”

  “Valtherians? Truly?” Lothar looked interested, but he didn’t look surprised. It seemed he already knew that Valtherians had joined Ilyra’s side.

  Veric kept going about Ilyra in Cindermouth, theorizing that she must be close to Level 100 now given she’d been stuck at 6th Ascension for years, he mentioned that she was clearly preparing for the Trials. Most importantly, he mentioned the barbarians moved like her shields.

  Lothar took a slow pull from the pipe. Then he gripped the black hair between his legs with an air of casual possessiveness.

  Silence settled between them.

  Lothar took a slow pull from the pipe, savoring his dominance. Then he nudged the head between his legs sharply.

  "Enough," he commanded.

  The woman flinched and retreated, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she stood, her face carefully blank. She wore nothing but a shift that did little to hide her vulnerability.

  Veric recognized her.

  Elira Thorne. Younger sister to one of Velkor’s minor knights. She’d been promised to a merchant’s son two years ago. A decent match. Not grand, but safe.

  Then the engagement fell through. Debts appeared overnight – numbers that didn’t add up, papers signed in her brother’s name he swore he’d never seen. The knight took a posting far from home. The girl vanished from polite society.

  What happened next was ugly. Lothar found her. He’d told Veric a few weeks before the incident that he liked the way she looked when she was scared. The following months etched invisible lines beneath her eyes, and her silences carried the weight of worlds. Lothar liked the way she learned to stop crying because it made him laugh.

  He never bothered with a collar. He didn't need one. He broke her family first, then broke her. She wore her past like a faded bruise, a reminder that didn't need silver to shine. He kept her close, a pet trained to be quiet and still. He used her when he was bored, showed her off when it suited him, let other men look because he knew she’d never speak.

  Now she stood in his chambers, bare and broken. Veric knew exactly what had happened, and that was why he’d accepted the call despite being ‘busy’.

  Lothar collected people the way other men collected swords. He found their pressure points and squeezed until they had no choice but to bend. Elira’s family had owed someone. That someone had owed Lothar. The chain was simple.

  Now she was his.

  Not officially a slave, she wore no collar, but she didn’t need to. It was the type of ownership that didn’t need metal.

  Elira walked out without a word. The door closed behind her. Lothar took another pull from the pipe and exhaled slowly.

  Then he laughed. It started low and built, genuine amusement filling the sound. “This is great,” he said. “Veric, my brother. Just keep an eye on her for a bit. And make sure she doesn’t leave the city too quickly. Hmm… Actually, follow her into Cindermouth. Take your slaves, make some noise. Avoid coming face to face with her, but if you do… well, you can play with the barbarians then. I just need her to stay busy for a day or two, hurt them so that they go see the medic instead of fleeing."

  Veric frowned. “Sure, I can do that. But… Just what is your plan, Lothar?”

  Lothar’s smile turned sharp. “I’m planning to send Richard.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Veric’s breath caught.

  Richard…?

  Richard the Bloodsucker. The vampire had been Lothar’s shadow for years. No one knew where he’d found the thing or how he’d tamed it. Veric had theories, however.

  House Velkor kept a hidden branch for forbidden blood magic. Veric had stumbled onto it once, and Lothar made him swear to keep it secret. They practiced old rituals, the type that Ethenia had outlawed long ago. Lothar used those to bind Richard. The result was a killer that didn’t stop until the blood ran out.

  Veric had seen him work once. It was anything but clean. It confused him why Lothar was sending someone like that to fetch Ilyra. “I thought you wanted her alive, Lothar?” Veric asked carefully.

  Lothar waved the pipe. “I do.”

  “Then why send him?”

  “Veric.” Lothar leaned forward, and the playful edge in his voice disappeared. “Learn to mind your business, brother. I’ll let you know later.”

  The plate went dark.

  Veric sat in silence, staring at the black disc. His wrist still hurt, and Lothar’s last words frustrated him further. What the fuck, who does he think he is? He first asked Veric to go mess with Ilyra inside Cindermouth, and then asked him to mind his own business? Did that make any sense?

  Veric just grumbled, promising himself to take this out on Ilyra. And her entourage of foolish barbarians.

  ****

  - Thorvyn Point of View -

  “Isn’t it a bit too hot, Thorvyn?” Elayne said, wiping sweat from her brow.

  Without wasting time in the morning, we were back in the dungeon. The fifth chamber was worse than the fourth in every way that counted. It felt alive and malevolent, as if the dungeon itself was a living force, intent on making every step a torment. Even the stones seemed to shift underfoot with a malicious will, like hands trying to unbalance them.

  Cindermouth had 10 floors, with the 10th being the most difficult since that was where the Dungeon Core awaited. I’d read that a few scholars theorized the Dungeon Cores to have a form of sentience, so maybe that was what was happening?

  The ceiling had sunk so low that Sir Harlan and I, and sometimes even Ragna, had to duck in the narrow stretches.

  The vents weren't just hissing anymore; they belched unpredictably, sending thick gouts of superheated air rolling across the floor like fiery serpents searching for prey. Every exhalation from the vents carried a sulfurous stench that made our throats itchy.

  The environment was growing dangerous, it made the stone glow a dull orange for a few seconds, but it felt like a beast's breath, a hot warning that we were inside a maw that could close at any moment.

  I’d taken off my ring at one point and only protected myself with a layer of Aura while we walked. I kept it thin even when my instincts told me to shell up further, warning me to make the layer thicker.

  [Aura: 5102/7000]

  My control had definitely increased. Before, it'd have dropped to 4500 instead.

  I waved the screen away and looked ahead. Ilyra walked in front of me, a small smile on her lips. She had killed four Magma Hounds and two Cinder Crawlers since morning, and her roots were coming faster every fight. Early on, she needed a full second to crack the stone and force life into it. Now she stamped and the roots were already moving before her heel finished settling.

  “She’s adapting,” I said while I watched her pace.

  Elayne walked beside me with her bandaged hand held close to her chest. “She always does. Ilyra is the type to cover her weaknesses first. But it also makes her dangerous.”

  “Hmm?”

  Elayne’s eyes didn’t leave Ilyra’s back. “To herself, I mean. She pushes until something breaks. My job is rarely to protect her from others and instead making sure that whatever breaks is not Ilyra herself.”

  “Sounds like a fun job.”

  She scoffed, “It’s not.”

  I liked Elayne. She talked like a soldier who had read a few books and then reached the conclusion that books were nice, but bleeding was more convincing.

  The tunnel opened into a long gallery with natural stone columns holding up the ceiling. Mineral crust covered the walls, and it formed spirals of red and black crystal that looked almost deliberate when the firelight hit it. I found myself staring because it was pretty in a hostile way, like a knife with good craftsmanship.

  “Cinderbloom formations,” Ilyra said without slowing. “Alchemists pay well for them. Don’t touch. Some are acidic.”

  “What’s not dangerous in this dungeon?” I asked, but nobody answered.

  Ragna’s hand drifted toward one.

  “Ragna.”

  She pulled back fast enough to pretend she hadn’t meant it. “I wasn’t going to touch it.”

  “You were.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Maybe a little. I’d have been fine, I have a [Poison Resistance] skill.”

  “Huh? Since when? You didn’t tell me that.”

  While Ragna and I had a little argument about why she didn’t tell me, and her defending herself saying she forgot since it’s not an interesting skill, my ears twitched. Something skittered over the ceiling and I instinctively tracked it with Dragon’s Eye.

  A cluster of Ash Skitters moved fast toward a crack in the far wall, and they ignored us completely. What’s up with that?

  We kept going until the gallery narrowed into connected chambers, and each one was hotter than the last. Ilyra cleared them with a calm rhythm that was starting to feel a bit annoying. A Magma Drake gave her trouble for half a minute, and then she wrapped its legs in roots thick as my arm and crushed its ribs until it stopped moving.

  Sir Harlan watched from the rear with his sword still sheathed, which told me he didn’t see anything worth wasting motion on.

  Then Ragna saw a Sulfur Wisp drift too close.

  She hit it before anyone could stop her.

  “HAHA–!”

  It exploded.

  While the mad girl laughed, three more Wisps went off with it because apparently this dungeon had a sense of humor. The chain reaction scorched the ceiling and showered us with hot debris, and Ragna stood in the middle of it, soot on her face, and her eyebrows singed. She smiled like she’d won a prize.

  “Ah, I forgot they all explode,” she said.

  Elayne stared at her. “You forgot…”

  “Come on, it was pure instinct.”

  Sir Harlan brushed ash off his shoulder. “Instinct should include memory.”

  Ragna shrugged like the dungeon itself was at fault. I didn’t say anything since this was a pretty safe dungeon; she could play a little. I handed her a cloth to wipe her face and she took it, then we kept moving because stopping in a volcano tunnel to argue about basic survival felt like a bad use of time.

  Deeper down, the dungeon started putting bigger things in our way.

  An Iron-Shell Burrower blocked a tunnel with its plated body and refused to move until Ilyra forced roots through the gaps and pried it open like a clam. A Flame Salamander the length of a wagon slept in a pool of liquid rock, and we gave it a wide berth because even Ilyra looked at it and said, “No.”

  I fell into a routine. I walked while scanning, I guarded while she fought, and I checked my Aura now and then to make sure I wasn’t losing too much.

  It was productive for her. For Ragna and me, it was escort duty with a view.

  Regardless, I put the ring back on. We really were deep enough now, so as I’d decided before, I stopped spending Aura on testing. From here on, I’d only use it when I have to.

  “What level are you?” I asked. “You must have leveled up a few times by now.”

  “Yes, for sure,” she said. “Let’s keep going.”

  “...?”

  A little confused why she didn’t answer me properly, we stepped into the next chamber. The sixth chamber. That was where the rhythm broke.

  We heard voices first. I caught shouting and the crack of a whip, and I heard metal strike stone with the kind of panic that only shows up when someone’s getting desperate. More battle slaves ahead? That was the vibe I got. I raised a fist and we stopped.

  I crept forward and looked around the corner.

  My eyes sharpened at the sight. My jaws clenched.

  It indeed was a team of battle slaves and their master. But it wasn’t just anybody.

  Veric Ashton stood in the middle of a wide chamber, his armor looking pristine and untouched by real battle, much like his carefully maintained public fa?ade. His crossbow hung at his hip, loaded but idle, a symbol of his reluctance to engage directly. His slaves, clad in polished armor that matched his obsession with appearance, did the fighting for him. They circled something so imposing that even my annoyance paused for a second.

  The creature was serpentine and covered in overlapping plates of blackened stone. Its head was flat and angular, and its mouth was full of teeth that glowed like heated metal. It had three pairs of legs digging into the rock as it thrashed, and every time it moved, the heat in the chamber spiked like the dungeon was cheering.

  [6th Ascension]

  Lava Basilisk. Even I knew what that meant.

  The wolfman I’d seen in the tavern held the front with grim efficiency, and his sword carved lines into the Basilisk’s plates whenever it gave him a gap. Another slave circled wide; she looked like a human ox hybrid, and her longsword left streaks wherever they struck. She moved like she was trying not to die while also trying not to waste effort. That was a terrible way to live.

  Veric watched them as if they were workers, not people. He didn’t even bother to raise his crossbow. He was waiting for the final shot, like always. The strongest among his slaves, the Amara of Ashkari, remained beside him like a bodyguard.

  If she gets involved, the monster can be dealt with easily, I realized. But Veric was too scared to let her fight since that’d mean he’d remain defenceless. What a simp.

  Amara wasn’t the only one that wasn’t fighting. There was another slave.

  She looked young. Sixteen, maybe. She seemed to be a normal human with brown hair and a collar that looked too big for her neck. She held a short sword with both hands and her whole body shook as she stared at the Basilisk’s mouth.

  The Basilisk swung its tail.

  Two slaves dodged.

  The girl didn’t.

  It hit her in the side and flung her across the stone. She struck the wall and crumpled in a way that made my stomach tighten.

  “Get up!” Veric yelled. “Get up and fight, you useless bitch! You can’t entertain me well, and now you can’t even fight?! What did I buy you for!”

  She pushed herself up anyway. Blood ran from her temple, and her eyes flicked to the tunnel behind her like it was the only sane thing in the room.

  She tensed.

  She was going to run.

  Veric saw it, and his hand lifted like he was swatting a fly. Veric curled his hand into a fist. The collar at her throat flared bright red instantly.

  The girl screamed, and her legs locked, and she dropped hard. She convulsed on the stone while the collar pulsed and crackled like it enjoyed itself.

  The Basilisk turned toward the sound.

  I gripped my axe, ready to intervene. The creature started toward her. I was about to kick the ground just when Ragna moved past me like a blur. I was surprised by the speed, but then I noticed wings on her back. Her [Wings of Fury] carried her through the air.

  “Ragna, careful!”

  “Got it!”

  She was in the 4th Ascension, but she was a Valtherian. I didn’t worry. She crossed the chamber in four strides with her club raised and brought it down on the Basilisk’s snout right as its jaws opened over the paralyzed girl. The impact cracked stone and snapped the creature’s head sideways.

  Molten saliva sprayed, Ragna’s body glittered with red scales, ignoring the splash. The [Scaled Armor] skill. She was already scooping the girl up with one arm and rolling behind a column.

  “Are you alright?” Ragna asked, and the little girl nodded quickly. Ragna turned to me, “She’s clear,” her voice had that calm she only got when she was about to do something violent. “Thorvyn.”

  Now that the girl was rescued, I allowed myself to focus. My eyes flicked to the weak bastard. My hand was on my axe and my feet were already taking me toward Veric.

  Ilyra grabbed my arm. “Thorvyn, calm down,” she said.

  I looked at her because I needed her to say something smarter than that.

  “...They’re his slaves,” Ilyra said before I could speak, and she looked like she hated every word. “He can do what he wants to them. If you kill him, you’re the criminal.”

  “By what law?”

  “The–” she started, and her grip tightened. She realized barbarians didn’t care about such laws. “R-regardless! This isn’t our law to break. Calm your rage, Thorvyn.”

  While we were having this stupid conversation, Veric’s shock turned into fury the moment he recovered his voice.

  “You! You savage bitch!” he yelled at Ragna. “How dare you interfere? Why did you save that slave bitch? She’s mine. She was ordered to fight, and she tried to flee–”

  Ragna looked at me. Her eyes asked a question. It was the same question she asked before she jumped into a fight she wasn’t supposed to take. It meant: Can I?

  I didn’t answer.

  That was enough of an answer.

  Ragna Valteria slowly turned. Then she rushed him, her club flying toward his head.

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